A/N: Although I wanted something more slashy to happen towards the end of this, I felt like it would have undermined the point of the fic.

He'd like to tell you otherwise, but ever since Nick came into his life, Monroe spends most of his time waiting for the other shoe to drop.

So, when he's sitting at his workbench tinkering with the triple complications on an old, and, on any other day, fascinating, pocket watch, trying to wish away both a headache and a sore throat, he just presses his eyes closed in frustration when he hears the tell tale ring of his phone.

Sure, it could be Rosalee -if he's lucky. But he's betting he's not.

His Caller ID only confirms his suspicions.

"Hey Nick," he rasps, wincing at the ragged and faint sound of his own voice. "I'm kind of..."

Nick, oblivious, cuts him off, "Monroe, are there any Wesen, that you know of, that ..." he pauses, clearly about to ask something he knows he's going to regret having the answer to. Monroe doesn't really get why. It's pretty clear to him that stranger and stranger things are going to come into their lives, and he's pretty sure Nick knows that. But he's also positive he's not in the mood for whatever weirdness Nick is about to bestow upon him, "that suck blood?"

Well then, potentially Wesen vampires? Yep, that's just the kind of problem he and his headache need. He huffs slightly but not enough that Nick notices.

Not that it matters, he's still going to help. It's just what he does - whether he's up for it or not.

He mulls it over briefly and decides there are a few possibilities. Vampire legends, much like fairy tales, didn't just spring up out of thin air. But he's finding myth and reality a little harder to parse on this one. The fuzziness in his head isn't helping.

"There's some legends about Flaudermauzen. My oma used to tell me about them," he says, rubbing his hand along his throat as it protests against every syllable. He wishes, just this once, that he knew how to be succinct, "And from what she said, they like, like, dark, damp places and have like super hearing, hey, you know, like yours now!... but the whole vampire legend could very well be just that, so I wouldn't go whittling stakes or anything. And the same goes for Eidedesches. They're cold-blooded, in like the literal sense, but I'm not sure anything else about them would really add up."

"But you think it could be one of them?" Nick presses. "Well, do either of the legends mention anything about draining blood?"

"Is that what they did? Well, why else would you be asking about it? ... No, I don't remember my oma saying anything about that. But it could still be one of them, yeah," He concedes. He's not entirely convinced, but he's hoping that it puts an end to the conversation so that he can just go back to being miserable in peace. Well, at least, until Nick comes home later and his involvement inevitably continues.

But, of course, the other shoe drops.

"It's something to go on at least. Can you meet us at the trailer? Hank and I are headed there now. We'll meet you there in about thirty minutes?" Nick says in a way that suggests that he's assuming Monroe's already heading for the door. "And, I think there's something wrong with your phone; if it weren't for my... er, enhanced hearing, I'm not sure I would have heard you."

"Uh, Nick..." Monroe rolls his eyes heavily as he tries to both protest and explain, but Nick has already hung up, which makes him roll his eyes even further. He sits and fusses over the pocketwatch for a few more minutes, glancing half-heartedly at his phone. Yeah, sure, he could send Nick a text. Or call him back. Or just not go.

But, reasoning that doing research in the trailer with what he now suspects is a mild fever really couldn't be that much worse than working on clocks that way, he goes to get his jacket.

When he gets to the trailer, Nick and Hank aren't there yet. So he thanks his lucky stars that, at least, he'd finally gotten Nick to make him a spare key.

Once inside, he glances at the books wearily. He's never really sure where to start. There are a lot of them in a lot of languages and very few of them have titles. It's usually enough to make his head spin even without a temperature.

He grabs a few at random and decides an account of Grimm dealings in Romania could be promising. Then, instead of opting for his usual chair, he climbs on the bed and leans against the wall before listlessly paging through the book.

Nick and Hank are trying to come up with a completely human rationale for the crime scene they had found that morning, with each theory seeming less plausible than the one before.

The problem being that neither of them really believes there is one. They're really just grasping at straws, hoping that just this once, honest-to-God humans are committing crimes. But, for the case du jour, vampires make almost too much sense.

It's too bad then, that, from what Monroe said, there's no definitive proof they're real.

Not that Nick's overly worried about that. As far as he can tell, most mythical things are real in the wesen world if you look at them in the right light, at the right angle. He's not saying he likes it. It's just the way that it is.

"Well, maybe someone is trying to frame a vampire," Hank suggests as Nick unlocks the door to the trailer.

"That would certainly trip us up," Nick says with a chuckle. He starts shuffling over to his desk but stops abruptly when he sees Monroe fast asleep over a book, chin in hand. He gestures for Hank to move quietly.

After Hank peers around Nick to see Monroe, he reaches out to shake his shoulder. Nick pulls him back.

"Don't," Nick whispers. "He'll woge."

"So?" Hank shrugs, looking unconcerned. When Nick doesn't reply, he turns around and reaches into a stack of books.

Nick, meanwhile, sidles onto the bed beside Monroe as Hank side eyes him. Then he says quietly, "It's not like you to fall asleep in the middle of the day. So, what's up?"

As he says it, the whole day replays for him, and he feels like an idiot. That morning, he'd gotten up before Monroe, which had happened maybe twice since he'd moved in. Then, when he brought Monroe a danish after he went jogging, Monroe had eyed it hesitantly before putting it in the refrigerator for later. Then, most strangely, he hadn't made coffee.

He always makes coffee; Nick kind of counts on it.

So, now he's starting to suspect that Monroe's distant sounding voice had a little less to do with his phone than he'd thought.

Slowly and cautiously, he reaches his hand across Monroe's forehead, fully expecting him to go red-eyed on him, but he doesn't even flinch. He finds it warmer to the touch than he suspects it should be.

"I think he's sick," Nick says to Hank, like he hasn't been watching him this whole time.

"So I gathered," Hank says, raising his eyes. "Still think it's a bad idea to wake him up? Sleeping like that can't be comfortable."

"Yeah, probably not," Nick says. Then he does exactly what he wouldn't let Hank do, "Monroe."

Monroe does woge slightly, but he looks dazed, and, therefore it's totally non-threatening, "Nick..? Oh...I fell asleep. Okay... How's...how's the research going?"

It's painfully obvious now that Monroe's on the verge of losing his voice.

"Not too well. Hank and I just got here, because we got stuck in traffic, and it looks like you've been asleep," Nick says matter-of-the-factly.

"Geez, I'm sorry, Nick, it's just that..." Monroe starts defensively, looking put upon, and Nick imagines he is about to tell him what he should have told him an hour ago. Nick waves his hand dismissively to stop him.

"That you're sick and had no business coming out here to begin with. You should have said something. Monroe, I really like having your help, but, man, not at your expense," Nick says. He tries to ignore the look of utter disbelief that crosses Monroe's features. "So, you can either lie down properly here, or I can take you home. Tell me what you want to do."

Monroe looks genuinely surprised, and Nick starts to wonder if Monroe really thought he would have made him come out here anyway. He hopes not. But that look of disbelief is starting to gnaw at him.

"Just let me know when you've sussed something out," Monroe says, as he rubs roughly at his temple. Nick feels like there's an argument against this that he's not making. So, as he watches Monroe slowly moving one of the pillows, Nick decides that's not an okay solution.

Apparently, Hank doesn't think it is either.

"Nick, if you don't take him home, I will. Vampires be damned," Hank says. Then he turns towards Monroe, "Man, you look pitiful."

"You heard him," Nick says to Monroe as he nudges his shoulder. "Let's go."

Two hours later, Monroe is peacefully settled in the living room, still mulling over Nick essentially fussing over him. He hadn't really considered it to be something in Nick's wheelhouse.

It's not that he doubts that Nick cares or anything. It's just that Nick has never really seemed the type. After all, every time he's been injured, while Nick has fervently offered to bring justice to, or more likely, beat the daylights out of, whoever hurt him, he's not really been the type to clean cuts and search for ice packs. In short, it's seemed to Monroe that Nick is usually better at going out to fight demons for you than playing nursemaid to you.

Nevertheless, once they'd gotten back home, Nick had pushed him onto the couch, found him a blanket, and made him tea. Tea with honey, no less.

"It's what Juliette always did for me," Nick said, in explanation, like it wasn't weird for him to do for his roommate what his girlfriend did for him. Monroe had simply bit his tongue.

Then he'd handed him fever reducers that he'd been too tired to argue against.

And finally, Nick had firmly pressed Monroe's cell phone into his hand, "If you need something, call or text me. When Hank and I finish up at the trailer, I'll stop and get something for your throat. Think you'll survive that long with just the tea?"

He'd nodded before promptly nodding off.

Since then, he's drifted in and out of sleep, amazed that the soft, rhythmic ticking of his clocks are the only noise in the house. He's gotten so used to Nick, and all of the chaos that comes with him, traipsing in and out, day in and day out, that the silence actually has him worried.

So, of course, just when he feels he's become entirely too complacent about the situation, there's a soft knock on the door.

He knows he doesn't have any clients coming over, so he can only imagine that his unexpected guest has something to do with Nick.

Although he's not entirely wrong, he's genuinely surprised when he finds Rosalee standing on the doorstep, with a container of soup in hand, "Nick wanted me to check up on you."

Monroe wrinkles his brow as he ushers her in. He's not entirely sure what to do with that. Clearly Nick isn't through being surprising.

"It sounded like he wanted to know for sure this wasn't some fatal Wesen disease," Rosalee says as she pushes him back towards the couch.

"Oh," Monroe says nodding dumbly. For some reason, he's irrationally, and he knows it's irrationally, disappointed. He'd really been relishing Nick taking care of him earlier, when he really didn't have to, when his being sick wasn't part of some overarching piece of Nick's police or Grimm work, when there were no demons to fight.

But there's the rub. Nick thinks that it is, that there are.

He figures it's not something he should dwell on. Nick is still being there for him, and that's all that really matters. Isn't it?

Despite that, his reply still comes across sardonically, "So, we need to prevent the Wesen plague from taking over Portland. Of course."

He's wishing that odd feeling that the other shoe has dropped would go away. He hadn't really realized the first shoe was there.

"There's nothing wrong with Nick wanting to do that," Rosalee says as she saunters towards the kitchen.

"No, I guess there isn't," Monroe mutters sullenly. He absently runs his fingers across the patterns in the fabric of the quilt Nick had thrown over him, trying to work out what exactly has him so upset. He supposes, ultimately, that he's always there for Nick, no matter what Nick needs him for, but he isn't so sure that he can say the same about Nick. Matters of life and death, justice and vengeance, he doesn't doubt Nick for a moment. For the little things in life, though, well...

"Monroe...? You okay?" Rosaee asks, running her hand over his forehead as she sets the bowl of soup on the coffee table.

Monroe doesn't answer. Instead, he leans towards the soup and sniffs at it, tentatively. "Coconut soup?"

"Yes. It's my aunt's recipe," Rosalee says, sitting down on the edge of the coffee table. "Well, if you aren't going to give me an answer, I'm going to assume the answer is no. Sit up."

Monroe follows her instructions wordlessly. She rewards him by sticking a tongue depressor in his mouth.

"What the hell is that for?" He tries to ask, but as the tongue depressor is still on his tongue, it doesn't come out quite right.

"Well, based on what Nick told me, and the fact that your sinuses aren't congested, I'm guessing that you have strep. But I'm not getting antibiotics for you unless I'm sure," Rosalee says. Monroe folds his arms over his chest. He did not in any way sign up for Rosalee to do this. He didn't even know she could do this. Though, he supposes, if she knows how to remove bullets and deliver babies, why wouldn't she know how to do a throat culture?

"Wait...did you tell Nick? You know, that I'm probably not patient zero or anything quite so ...apocalyptic," Monroe says as she pulls the swab out of his mouth.

"He seemed to think it best that I take any and all precaution, just in case," Rosalee says with a smile as she puts the swab in a plastic bag. "I'd say he's worried about you."

Rosalee's cell phone rings, and giving Monroe an apologetic wave, she moves over a few feet to answer it, "Hey Nick... Yeah, I'm at your house right now... No, I still don't think you have anything to worry about... I'll let him know."

"Nick said he thinks he'll be home in about an hour. It sounds like he and Hank made some headway with the information you gave them earlier," Rosalee says. Then she looks down at her watch. "Well, I hate to leave you here on your own, but I have an appointment with someone at the spice shop. I'll reschedule with them if you want me to though."

"I really appreciate the offer, but I'm not keeping you from your work. See you later," Monroe says, waving her towards the door as she hesitates. He's realizing, to his chagrin, that what he had really wanted was for Nick to have given the same offer a few hours ago. He supposes it's a little selfish of him to think that he should be more important than Nick's work, especially considering what Nick's work is.

Clearly, just to even things out, he needs a more altruistic and time sensitive line of work than clock making.

Trying to redirect his thoughts, Monroe focuses on Rosalee's soup. It smells delicious. But it hurts to swallow, and every time he does, his ears feel odd. So he fishes for the remote before haphazardly flipping through channels.

When Nick comes in, slightly later than he'd hoped, he finds Monroe sound asleep on the couch, his hand lingering above the dropped remote. The now cold soup sits abandoned on the coffee table.

He sets down a bag full of odds and ends from the Spice Shop, before picking up the remote and placing it on the end table. The he hesitates for a moment before taking the soup and putting it in the refrigerator.

Then, with a hastily made ham sandwich, he collapses into the armchair across from the couch. He's halfway through eating it when Monroe stirs.

"Were you... waiting up for me?" Monroe asks, rubbing at his eyes, his voice hardly above a whisper. While earlier he had looked dazed and pitiful, now he just looks and sounds thoroughly miserable. And after chatting with Rosalee, Nick has this odd inkling that it isn't just because he's sick.

"I'd hardly call it that," Nick says. Then he waves his hand past the nearest clock, "Besides, it's only seven."

Monroe looks surprised but nods just the same.

"Did you want me to reheat the soup Rosalee made? It looked like you hardly touched it," Nick asks.

"That's because I didn't," Monroe says, looking oddly affronted.

"Then you need to eat something," Nick says as he heads back to the kitchen.

Nick sincerely doubts he's supposed to hear this, but when he's halfway back to the refrigerator, Monroe mumbles to himself, "If he'd just stop trying to take care of me, I could be mad at him in peace..."

Nick sighs as he hits the buttons on the microwave. It isn't like Monroe to not just spit out, in no uncertain terms, what Nick has done to affront him. Or at the very least, dance around the subject so long that it just comes out anyway. So why wasn't he doing any of that now? Maybe he thought if Hank hadn't been in the trailer earlier, Nick really would have made him stay. Nick watches wearily as the numbers on the microwave rotate downwards, hoping that Monroe doesn't think he's that terrible of a friend.

Deciding whatever is bothering Monroe can wait a few minutes longer, Nick sticks the soup in front of him before poking him softly with the spoon, "I'm making sure you eat it this time, and I'm telling Rosalee she didn't do her due diligence."

Although Monroe's clearly fighting to look more annoyed than amused, Nick sees a smile twist at the edge of his lips.

"Though she did send me away from the Spice Shop with all of that," Nick says, pointing at the brown paper bag. "There's antibiotics in there."

"Not dying then," Monroe mumbles as he reaches for them.

Nick raises his eyes for a moment. Although he'd asked Rosalee to make sure this was something run of the mill, he'd never really doubted that it was.

"You didn't think you were, did you?" Nick asks, concern lacing his voice. He doesn't really think Monroe is serious. But Monroe has him worried in so many different ways right now, well, he's not really sure he wants to take that risk.

"Well, no..." Monroe says. Although Nick is relieved by that, he senses Monroe has more to say, but instead of going on, he looks down at the soup and starts fiddling with the spoon, swishing the liquid around in every direction.

Realizing Monroe isn't getting any closer to spitting it out, Nick prompts, "What's wrong, Monroe? Something's clearly bothering you, and I can't do anything about it if I don't know what it is."

Monroe's face pinches in uncertainty. Then he sets the soup back on the coffee table before looking up at Nick briefly. He runs his hand over his forehead and the bridge of his nose before saying softly, "You...you're bothering me."

He looks like he immediately regrets having said it. Then, before Nick has a chance to really process it let alone do something about it, Monroe gets up and runs halfway up the stairs.

Nick suspects that he had intended to go to his room, but he falters and sways on the steps before placing his hand over his head and leaning heavily towards the wall. Nick follows after him.

"Monroe? Monroe, are you okay?" Nick asks as he grips his shoulders. He pushes at him until Monroe sits down on the steps.

"Kind of dizzy," Monroe says, leaning over his knees. "Damn fever."

Nick sits down next to him and rubs his hands over his back, "Well, since your grand plan to run away from me backfired, want to tell me how I'm bothering you?"

"I...well, I'm not quite sure how to explain, actually. Give me a minute," Monroe says. Nick nods and continues to rub at Monroe's back.

"I think you're kind of proving me wrong right now," Monroe says. "And it's not helping."

Nick feels like Monroe has had an entire conversation in his head that he hasn't been a part of, "Proving you wrong about what?"

"That when the chips are really down, I know I can count on you," Monroe draws in a deep, shaky breath and leans back a little, rubbing at his throat. Then he looks up at Nick, "But when they're only sort of down, it's kind of a grey area."

Well, if that isn't a punch to the gut.

But definitely wanting to completely prove Monroe wrong, Nick really thinks about that before asking, "So, you thought because you aren't dying, I wouldn't take care of you or something equally hare-brained?"

Monroe shrugs a little, "Well, you don't really have any need or reason to, on top of which, don't you have some fanged villains to douse in sunlight or feed garlic to?"

"And I was the idiot for thinking I needed silver bullets?" Nick says rolling his eyes mildly. "Well, they weren't really vampires, and I'm only letting this go because you have a fever. "

Then returning to the issue at hand, he tousles Monroe's curls, "And I most certainly do have a reason to take care of you."

Monroe stares at him blankly, so he continues, "I want to."